


Carousels

by TheDevilYouKnew



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDevilYouKnew/pseuds/TheDevilYouKnew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas, 2011. New York City is about to be hit with the biggest snowstorm of the century, but some traditions are worth braving any weather for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carousels

It was Christmas eve, the city was buried under slush, and Neal Caffrey was freezing. He couldn’t fit more than one pair of wool socks underneath his tracking anklet and the hardwood floor was draining heat from his entire body. An hour ago he’d gotten dressed by habit in a suit, then realized while tying his shoes that there was no way he’d be able to get to Central Park like this. His feet would be soaked before he made it to the next block and wet feet in winter was a first-rate way to get hypothermia. He didn’t own snow boots; they interfered with his aesthetic and besides, they wouldn’t fit over his anklet. With a frustrated sigh he took off his shoes, tucked the laces inside, and put them neatly away on the shoe shelf in his closet. He grabbed his black rubber galoshes from the garbage bag he kept them in and worked them onto his feet. His tracking anklet caught on the lip and Neal frowned at it, working the thing as best he could into the boot. It was supposed to chafe less than the older model but that obviously wasn’t happening.

  
At long last Neal closed the closet door, put on his overcoat and draped a scarf around his neck. He left the room, picking up the bag he’d left on his dining table. He worked his thick gloves onto his hands as he made his way down June’s grand staircase into the front hall. He looked to his right, directly into the face of the grandfather clock that was the same height as he was, checking to make sure that he wasn’t late. It was five past ten. He still had plenty of time to make it to Central Park before midnight. He settled his earmuffs over his hair, wrapped his scarf tight around his neck and mouth, and eased out of the front door as quietly as possible. He locked it behind himself and tucked his hands into his pockets.

  
The inside of his nose stung from the cold and he sneezed, almost slipping on the sidewalk as he made his way down the block. He managed to keep his balance but the bag on his shoulder was slipping. He had to keep one hand out of his pocket to hold onto it. Every few blocks he switched hands, balling the other into a fist in his pocket to try and stop his fingers from going numb.

Central Park was dark and silent when Neal got there. He picked his way along the path, trying hard not to inhale loose threads from his scarf. It was stiff and scratchy, knitted from bulky green and gray wool yarn instead of cashmere like he’d have preferred. But it had been a gift from Elizabeth and it kept him warm, and that was what mattered.

  
The lights were off inside the carousel as Neal approached it, but in the glow of a nearby path lamp he could see a thin plume of cloudy breath rising and dissipating from the doorway. He didn’t want to pull up his sleeve to check his watch but he would have bet money that it wasn’t yet midnight.

“I saw a mockingbird in the park,” Neal said as he approached, keeping his voice down. A face popped out of the doorway, fogged rectangles covering the eyes.

“What color was the mockingbird?” Mozzie asked, taking his glasses off and wiping them on the hem of his thick sweater.

“The mockingbird was—” Neal stopped. “Mozzie, what are you wearing?”

Mozzie looked down at himself, then put his glasses back on and met Neal’s eyes. “Because you asked,” he said, “it was a gift from Mrs. Suit. If I’d known she was knitting me a sweater, I’d have given her my measurements instead of insisting that she not know any more about me than necessary.”

Neal shook his head with a small laugh. “It looks great on you, Moz.” Brushing past his friend he added, “Come on, I’m freezing and so’s the wine.”

Mozzie followed him into the carousel building, checking up and down the path before he closed the door. Neal quietly broke into the operator’s booth and turned on the emergency lights, enough to light the carousel floor but not so much that someone outside might see and decide to investigate.

“Just look at it,” Mozzie said, hands folded inside the oversized sleeves of his sweater. He reached up to adjust his glasses, which were starting to fog again. “Fifty-seven hundred-year-old horses rescued from an abandoned Coney Island trolley terminal.”

“The craftsmanship is unmatched,” Neal said, taking off his gloves. He tucked them into his pocket, then took off his earmuffs and balanced them over the ears of the nearest painted horse. He draped his scarf carefully around the neck of the same animal. Taking a step back he spread out a picnic blanket under the flying hooves of a pair of rearing brown warhorses. “Each one is worth a fortune.” He glanced at Mozzie, raising his eyebrows with a small, mischievous smile.

“Hilarious,” Mozzie said. He took off his hat and sat down on the blanket, opening his messenger bag to reveal Chinese take-out and, to Neal’s amazement, an entire apple pie. It was a little the worse for wear but still mostly in one piece.

“What’ve we got?” Neal asked, nodding at the take-out as he kicked off his galoshes. His anklet got stuck again and he worked his fingers into the sock underneath it, trying to ascertain how much of a blister he was going to have in the morning.

“The usual,” Mozzie said, putting one of the take-out containers and a pair of chopsticks in front of where Neal was about to sit down. He picked up the wine bottle Neal had set out and looked at the label. “A good vintage.” He handed it up to Neal.

“A gift,” Neal said, sitting down and crossing his legs. It took him a while to get comfortable sitting like this with his tracking anklet, but he managed it eventually.

“Who from?”

“Alex.”

“Really? I thought she was in Rome.”

Neal uncorked the wine and handed Mozzie a glass. “Apparently not. How much?”

“Just pour until I say stop.”

“Are you going to wait for me to fill up the whole glass before you say stop?”

Mozzie grinned and shrugged. The collar of his sweater bunched up enough to touch his ears and Neal had to bite back an amused laugh. He poured Mozzie a half glass of wine and himself a little less, then set the bottle on the wood floor of the carousel. There was a little red ring there from past years where wine had spilled in the exact same place. It must be an ongoing mystery to the maintenance workers and cleaning staff who had to see it newly stained every winter.

“Merry Christmas, Moz,” Neal said, holding out his wine glass.

“To old friends and new beginnings,” Mozzie said, and clinked his glass against Neal’s.

 

* * *

 

Neal had had no luck calling a cab for Mozzie with all the snow that had fallen during the few hours they’d been in the carousel. The two of them got back to June’s house at a little before three in the morning. Their feet were wet, their hands were cold, and they were both more tipsy than Neal had realized. Mozzie took off his shoes and immediately fell asleep on Neal’s couch. Neal swiped the counterpane from his bed and draped it over his quietly snoring friend, tucking the edges in around Mozzie’s toes. His socks were more hole than cotton and Neal wondered for a minute when the last time he’d really checked up on Mozzie had been. They spoke almost every day, but it had to have been a while since he’d truly looked into his friend’s well-being. Months, maybe years. He closed the drapes on the windows as much as he could and wrapped himself in a bathrobe and two quilts, and for a while he was finally comfortable.

Then he started to sneeze.

By morning his throat was raw from coughing and he’d used up an entire box of tissues. Mozzie, a lightweight, was still fast asleep on the couch, but Neal was starting to feel hungover. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. He couldn’t even force himself to get out of bed to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom.

An unexpected noise at the door made him wince. He knew it was June and not Peter by the way she knocked. He could hear Bugsy whining and turning circles on the hardwood floor.

“Come in,” he said, or would have said if he hadn’t started coughing in the middle.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast,” June said, opening the door. “I thought I’d check on you. Bugsy, stay. You got a Christmas card.”

Neal was a little shocked, and would have been more so if he’d been completely sober. “From who?” he asked, and sneezed. Bugsy barked at him and he winced.

“It’s from Agent Burke,” June said, walking into the room to put the card on Neal’s table. Neal raised his eyebrows. It had probably been Elizabeth’s idea, since she was also the one who’d given Neal — and apparently Mozzie — Christmas presents half a month in advance.

“Do you need anything?” June asked, looking Neal’s blanket cocoon up and down. “Soup?”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Neal said. He honestly wouldn’t have minded it, but receiving a Christmas card was already domestic enough. He didn’t need to be treated like a child. “But thank you, June.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” June said. “Bugsy, come.” Neal saw her notice Mozzie asleep on the couch, but she left without saying anything about it.

As soon as she was gone Neal shed his blankets, grabbed a handful of tissues, and shuffled over to the table.

“The Suit family sent you a card?” Mozzie asked without sitting up. Neal twitched, startled.

“Yeah, they did. How long have you been awake?” He wiped his nose on a tissue and picked up the card.

“Not long.” He sat up and held out his hand. “Can I see it?”

“Give me a second.” Neal looked the card over, smiling a little at the picture on the front. It was nice, probably taken by a professional photographer. Peter was wearing a suit, Elizabeth a fancy dress Neal had never seen before. They were holding hands and Satchmo was curled lazily at their feet, his eyes fixed on something off-camera to the left. Neal’s smile got a little bit wider when he realized that Peter must have had to move the couch in order to make the picture look more formal. The photograph showed them sitting in front of their fireplace instead of by the windows where they would have been normally.

“I was never one for family portraits,” Mozzie said, sitting up and reaching for the pile of books Neal kept on his coffee table. “Too tacky.”

“I don’t know, Moz,” Neal said, flipping the card over. Half of the back was filled by a picture of Peter and Elizabeth leaning their foreheads together in a typical couple pose. “I think it’s kind of—” He broke off as his eyes traced the paragraph in pretty font that filled the other half of the back of the card.

“Mozzie,” he said, “Listen to this.”

“What is it?”

“We’re mentioned on the card.”

“What?” Mozzie nearly dropped the book he was holding.

“Not by name. Listen. ‘Elizabeth’s event planning business is soaring. Peter’s work at the Bureau is classified as ever, but there have been several new additions to the usual suspects with whom Peter works to keep the city safe.’”

“It’s stilted,” Mozzie said, putting the book back on the coffee table and checking to make sure none of his rings had fallen off while he slept.

“It’s Christmas card, Moz, not the Antioch manuscripts. The prose isn’t exactly going to flow. Besides, it’s kind of—”

“Revolting?”

“Endearing.” Neal whacked Mozzie on the top of the head with the card. “I’ve never been mentioned on a Christmas card before.” He held the card a moment longer, then set it back on the table as Mozzie threw off the blanket and got off of the couch.

“Food?” he asked.

“Downstairs,” Neal said, and sneezed into one of his tissues. “Don’t touch anything—”

“But the fridge and the plates.” Mozzie rolled his eyes. “You’ve told me. What if I need silverware?” Neal looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Mozzie waved a hand at him and left the room, going down the front stairs so quietly in his socks that he startled Bugsy into barking when he got to the bottom.  
Neal listened until he heard Mozzie open the fridge, then picked up the card again. By the time Mozzie came back into the room holding a sandwich Neal had shoved the card under the nearest stack of papers.

“It’s supposed to snow forty inches by tomorrow,” Mozzie said, settling into a chair across from Neal and putting his plate on the table.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Not at all. I just heard it on the radio.”

Neal started to say it would be fine, then thought of the Christmas card and his scarf and Mozzie’s ridiculous, oversized sweater. He hoped that Peter and Elizabeth would be okay. Two feet of snow had the potential to shut the city down, delaying emergency services by dangerous lengths of time.

“I think the Suits will be alright,” Mozzie said. Neal looked at him, skeptical, but couldn’t help smiling at his sincere expression.

“Yeah, I think so too,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. Outside, behind Mozzie, the snow once again started to fall.


End file.
